


doctor doctor, tell me, will i live or die?

by welshwriter



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Canon Divergence - Post-Hogwarts, F/F, Femslash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-05 21:00:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25971733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/welshwriter/pseuds/welshwriter
Summary: “Ginny’s staying here for her physiotherapy,” Harry said. “Her therapist lives in London, she can do home visits easily that way.”“Who is her therapist?” Hermione asked. Ginny scowled and Harry bit back a smile.“Er, do you remember Pansy Parkinson…?”Ginny is injured out of a Quidditch game, and needs a physio-therapist to help heal her messed-up leg. Sparks fly when Pansy bloody Parkinson turns up on her doorstep.
Relationships: Pansy Parkinson/Ginny Weasley
Comments: 4
Kudos: 47





	doctor doctor, tell me, will i live or die?

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @ triggerlil on tumblr for the prompt!

Ginny’s marriage to Harry lasted exactly a year.

As far as Ginny was concerned, anyway. It was when she came to accept that going on together was absolutely useless, anyway. Despite the half-hearted attempts at reconciliation and the actual legal divorce process, it was only a few months before the documents confirming their divorce was dropped onto Ginny’s toast. Nevertheless, it was confirmed, and definitely over, which was why Ginny groaned when Harry was led to her hospital bed.

“I thought I finally got rid of you,” she said, rolling her eyes and sitting up to accept the coffee he had brought her.

“You did,” he replied. He looked as bashful as ever. “Doesn’t mean I don’t still worry about you, though.”

“I’m fine, Harry.”

He glanced at her bandages and bruises, and looked back at her doubtfully.

They were married in the aftermath of the war. At the time, given the circumstances, it had seemed like the right thing to do. It was almost exactly a year after the war, and the wedding was beautiful in the Scottish summer sunlight, everyone in their wedding finery. It had been beautiful, and some part of Ginny thought she was so in love. The problems had started not long after that.

“How did you know I was here?”

“They contacted me. I’m still down as your husband, I guess.”

The paperwork had been unceremoniously brought by Rocky, Ginny’s oversized and grumpy owl, only that morning. It was probably still sat onher kitchen table, stained with jam.

“What happened?”

Ginny sighed, remembering the moment of panic as the bludger plunged towards her. “Rogue blunger. Really beat me up. Didn’t anybody tell you?”

“They did but… I dunno. Wanted to give you something to say.”

Ginny blamed herself for their failed marriage, above everything else. It was her bad temper and wandering eye and, really, her inability to love him properly. She’d made Harry Potter cry, and she was one of only a very select few people who could say that.

“So… Yeah. How’ve you been?” Harry wasn’t crying now. He wasn’t really looking at her at all, but talked to her bed sheets.

“Not been up to much, apart from Quidditch. There isn’t really much to do up there, is there? I hear you’ve become even more of a recluse recently.”

Harry flushed. “Who have you been talking to?”

“Ron. Then Hermione. You didn’t win them in the divorce, you know.”

And there, again, was the kicked puppy expression, and Ginny wished he would just leave altogether.

Their marital home had been in a far-flung corner of Wales, with a view of the grey sea and the Holyhead Harpies’ training ground. They were far away from anyone who was interested in harassing them. If Ginny could have been happy anywhere, it was there.

“Where are they, anyway? Isn’t Ron coming to do his macho-big brother routine?

“I think he’s still at the match.”

Ginny sighs heavily. “Brilliant. What time is it? How long as it lasted now?”

“Oh. Um…”

“Oh, good. What happened?”

“Your seeker caught the snitch, actually. But your chasers didn’t do so well without you… It was very close.”

“Fuck it.”

Her aching leg seemed to get worse as her temper rose. “Fuck it.” She squeezed her thumb and counted to ten lightly. Harry was used to her Quidditch-related meltdowns, and he smiled sympathetically. Finally, she rubbed her face and groaned. “So why’s Ron still there?”

“Yelling at the referee, I think. Hermione’s owl was a little bit scribbled.”

Before Ginny could ask any more questions, a sharply dressed Healer entered the room. He grinned at them both, baring gleaming white teeth. “Hi, how are you both?”

“My leg hurts.”

His grin didn’t falter, despite Ginny’s bad temper. “Yes, we’ve done what we can, but it’s going to take a couple of weeks of healing. Healer Brunswick, by the way.” He brandished a hand for Harry to shake.

“Weeks?”

“Yes, if not months. Your leg was quite badly damaged, I’m afraid.”

“Can’t you just…” She waved a hand. “Heal me?”

Ginny was sure his teeth couldn’t be so white naturally. They looked like they required clever shellwork as he smiled at her a-fucking-gain.

“What’s the healing process?” Harry asked quickly, pre-empting any comments Ginny might have about the Healer’s teeth, or perhaps his carefully styled hair.

“Frequent exercises, Im afraid, with a specially trained healer. Do you, ah, have anywhere to stay in London?”

“Yes,” Harry replied.

“Yes, I thought so.” Every _yes_ was dragged out with smarm. “It was, ah, your godfather’s house, is that right? In Islington?”

Harry shifted uncomfortably. “Yes.”

“Yes, well, very good, very good. Well…” He glanced at his expensive wristwatch. “Your wife needs, ah, rest. Best if she spends the night here, I should think. Yes… Lovely to meet you Mr Potter. Mrs Potter. Yes…”

Ginny didn’t wait for the door to have totally closed. “Twat.”

Harry snorted. “Yes, well, I’m, ah, afraid that isn’t the sort of language we condone in a hospital.”

“Shut up,” Ginny grinned. “It kind of looks like he had that Muggle box-to you showed me.”

“Yeah, it kind of did.”

They smiled at each other.

“Grimmauld Place, then?”

Harry looked away and nodded. “I’ve invested too much emotional energy in the Harpies for you not to make a full recovery.”

“Yeah. Yeah, OK.”

*

“So you two are, what? Back together again?”

Ron sat at Grimmauld Place’s kitchen table with his arms folded and biscuit crumbs flecking his jumper. Hermione sipped her tea and shook her head apologetically at Harry.

“No, Ronald. As I explained pretty clearly in my letter, we’re really not.”

“But you are living together?”

“Ginny’s staying here for her physiotherapy,” Harry said. “Her therapist lives in London, she can do home visits easily that way.”

“Who is her therapist?” Hermione asked. Ginny scowled and Harry bit back a smile.

“Er, do you remember Pansy Parkinson…?”

“Fuck’s sake,” Ginny muttered as Ron laughed loudly. “I thought you’d be throwing things and yelling about a Slytherin Death Eater in Harry Potter’s house, touching up your sister.”

“Was she a Death Eater?” Hermione asked thoughtfully. “You know, I don’t think she was.”

“I remember her trying to pass Harry off to the Dark Lord.”

“People can change, Ginny,” Hermione said, looking a little too holier-than-thou for Ginny’s liking. “If we’ve learnt anything, it’s that people can change.”

“What’s that got to do with anything? I still don’t want my _life_ to be in her hands.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic.”

“It isn’t like it really matters,” Harry interrupted. “She’s coming in the morning, anyway.”

Ginny huffed from her position on the sofa, her leg propped up gingerly, and Ron laughed again.

*

Harry answered the door to Pansy. She smiled at him stiffly, looking a lot smarter than he remembered, and in neat robes and carrying an expensive Dragon-hide suitcase.

“Ginny’s in the dining room,” he explained, letting her into the house. “On the sofa. I wasn’t sure if you wanted her there, or in a chair, or -“

“Sofa’s fine. She won’t be getting up today anyway, she needs to be comfortable.”

Ginny’s bad mood hadn’t abated since her injury, and she was not about to pretend otherwise for Pansy bloody Parkinson, of all people. She had only been helped off the sofa to go to bed, and then to go back to the sofa, and she was stiff and bored. Harry taking care of her was awkward when he tried to avoid her as much as possible. She had mostly been reading whatever Harry could find her on Quidditch. She wondered about writing her own book one day, when she was retired. Or, she thought as Pansy entered the room, when she was injured out of her career.

“Can I get you some tea? Or coffee?” Harry asked. Pansy shook her head and looked grim.

“Look, I’m going to be in your house a lot and working closely and - and I feel like I need to say this. I’m sorry for my behaviour in school. I was young and stupid, and I was just trying to impress my friends and keep myself safe. As soon as I got out of school - after the war - I disavowed all of it. I’m not like that anymore. I’m really, really sorry for everything that happened to you.”

“Er… Right. Thank you.” Harry inched towards the door. It was far, far from the first apology he’d received. “Don’t worry about it. I’ll just… leave you two to it, I suppose.” And he bolted.

Pansy and Ginny looked at one another. “Is it OK if I come and sit with you?”

“Be my guest.”

She sat on the kitchen chair nearest to Ginny, examining her injured leg carefully and avoiding Ginny’s heavy gaze. But Ginny couldn’t help it. “You know, we were arguing about whether or not you were technically a Death Eater yesterday.”

“Is that so? Do you mind if I touch your leg?” She rolled up Ginny’s trousers. “It would be a lot better if you wear something shorter next time.”

Ginny stayed quiet, watching Pansy work on her leg. She thought about how much Pansy had changed since school, as Pansy tucked her glossy dark hair behind her ear. Her face was less pinched, her mannerisms less uncomfortable. Ginny bit her lip as Pansy’s long fingers brushed her thigh.

“I wasn’t a Death Eater. I was too interested in myself to know what was really going on. I was just stupid and liked being mean. And I fancied Draco. Does it hurt when I touch you here?”

“No.”

“Can you stretch your leg?”

“Not without it hurting.”

“OK. Can you turn onto your stomach, please?”

Ginny felt more vulnerable than ever with her cheeks pushed into the sofa cushions, looking out onto an upside-down kitchen. She found she liked it, a little bit. It was the closest to sex she’d come to in weeks, following the Holyhead Harpies no-sex during tournaments policy religiously. She closed her eyes and hoped Pansy stayed too preoccupied to see her expression.

“Draco was fit.”

“Excuse me?” Pansy didn’t stop in her ministrations.

“Draco was fit. I totally get you fancying him.”

Pansy laughed. “Yeah?”

“The whole evil brooding schtick? Yeah. What’s he even up to now? Still a prick?”

“You’ve got your own sexy brooding husband, I would say. Is it just your knee and calf that are painful?”

Ginny pushed away any thought of lying to get Pansy to touch her higher. “Yeah,” she said. “Just my lower leg.”

“OK.” They’re quiet for a few moments. “Draco’s holed up in a flat his parents are paying for. He reads mostly. I told him he should become a professor, but I don’t think you could get him back to Hogwarts if you hexed him.”

“Are you going out with him?”

“No, no. He’s gay.”

“Oh,” Ginny said. “That makes a lot of sense.”

“They all are, those pureblood families up in their mansions.”

“My family’s pureblood, too.”

“Not anymore it isn’t.”

Ginny twists around to look at Pansy.

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that,” she adds quickly. “I’m sure Granger’s a great addition to the family.”

Ginny hums, not really believing her. “Any comment close to that again and I’m beating you up, fucked leg or not.”

“I believe you. You can turn the right way round again.”

Pansy was hovering above her when Ginny faced the ceiling again. Ginny twisted her lips shut.

“You won’t mention Draco to the press, will you?”

“We don’t like the Prophet any more than you do.” Ginny sits up as Pansy starts to look through her bag. “Why did you tell me?”

“Oh, it isn’t exactly a secret. I’m surprised you didn’t know already. I just wanted to check you weren’t going to do anything malicious.”

“Harry saved Draco from Azkaban.”

“I know. Doesn’t mean you don’t want him to suffer a little bit, though. Here we go.” She pulled out a sheet of parchment and quill. “I’m going to write down the exercises I want you to do every morning and every night, OK? And any other time your leg is making a fuss.”

Ginny watched as she wrote down the exercises.

“Stretch your calf like this… And bend your knee like this…”

Ginny imitated Pansy’s demonstrations stiffly. “When’s our next appointment?” she asked without raising her eyes from Pansy’s contorting leg.

“In a week.” Finished, Pansy handed Ginny the parchment and extended her hand to shake. Ginny shook her hand and Pansy nodded. “Owl me to let me know when you’re free.”

“Harry and I are divorced.” Ginny held Pansy’s gaze almost defiantly. Pansy’s plucked eyebrow twitched.

“OK.”

“Just - in case you’re worried I’m going to tell on Malfoy. You know. Now you know about me, too.”

Pansy shrugged. “OK.”

“I’m free whenever. I literally can’t go anywhere, obviously. I can yell for Harry to show you out.”

“That’s fine.” Pansy smiled, for the first time since she’d arrived. “Have a nice week.”

“You too.”

*

Parkinson Place was hidden in a corner of Regent’s Park. It wasn’t only invisible to muggles, but to anybody who didn’t already know it was there. But if you knew where to find out, and you truly wanted to enter with only good intentions towards the Parkinson family, it would appear just as you were least expecting it. It sometimes took Pansy hours for her home to appear.

She walked from Grimmauld Place. She loved leafy north London, especially on a warm September evening. People spilled out of the restaurants and pubs into the hilly streets, summer dresses and shirts open at the neck and rolled up at the sleeves. It used to make her wonder at how muggles could behave so much like wizards. She loved the busy high streets as well, fast food joints and cheap fabric shops the people rushing past buzzing with energy. As direct and put together as Pansy might have seemed, she could spend her life wondering aimlessly.

Unfortunately, there was only so much time she could waste, and before long she was marching through central London, where nobody batted an eyelid at her robes, and into south London, which was less hilly and more spacious but seemed to Pansy to be somehow more claustrophobic. Her feet were aching from the walk and she was ready to collapse onto the nearest soft surface, and the house appeared without any trouble.

If she was quiet, her mother really shouldn’t be able to hear her come in.

“Pansy!” A voice barked from the living room, and Pansy sagged. “ _Pansy!_ ”

“Yes, Mother,” Pansy said, checking her reflection in the mirror before hurrying to the sitting room. Caroline Parkinson was petite and delicate against the large armchair she was in, her embroidery on her lap. The fire was blazing and despite the drafty house, Pansy started to sweat. She remained in the shadows.

“Where have you been?”

“Working, Mother.”

Caroline didn’t need to make a sound to make her derision clear. Her eyebrow twitched. “Have you seen Draco?”

“Not today, Mother.”

“Will you?”

“I’m tired.”

“Are you?” Caroline turned back to her embroidery. “If you weren’t working, maybe you’d have some more energy.”

“Yes, Mother.”

“You _must_ pay this more attention, Pansy. Your marriage is the only thing that can pull this family back from the brink of financial ruin. Your father -“

“Yes, Mother.”

“ _Don’t interrupt me_.”

Pansy held her mother’s cold glare.

“Step into the light.”

Pansy did so without hesitation. She held up her chin and arranged her face into a passive expression. Her mother narrowed her eyes.

“Wear makeup when you see Draco on Thursday. Go and do your exercises.” With a flick of her wand, the door opened.

“Yes, Mother.”

*

Hermione and Ron, thankfully, visited regularly, particularly after a discreet owl from Ginny, the gist of which was, “Oh God, please don’t keep me cooped up with my ex-husband, please please rescue me, please.”

Harry wasn’t difficult to live with. Just as when they were married, he kept to himself, pottering around in the garden and reading in his room. Every so often, he checked on Ginny, offering her tea or to change the channel on the Tee-Thee he got to entertain her. It was the dinners that were really unbearable. The first couple of nights, Ginny filled them with babble while Harry picked at his food. When she ran out of things to monologue about, she joined Harry in his silence. It was like re-living the end of their marriage.

When Ron and Hermione appeared on the doorstep, she could have cried. She flung her arms around them both, her crutches clattering to the floor.

“Bloody hell, Ginny, steady on,” Ron said, trying to pick up the crutches while he kept a grip on her.

“Come on, Hermione,” Ginny said, taking her crutches from Ron and pushing past him out of the door. “I’m sick of this house. Let’s go get a drink.”

“Charming,” Ron called after them, Ginny and Hermione already down the steps. “Are you two going to be home for dinner?”

“Probably not,” Ginny yelled over her shoulder, limping away as fast as she could.

She and Hermione found a gastro pub near a park in Islington, with faux Victorian paintings and a dark woody smell. They sat outside in a cramped pub garden with their drinks and halloumi fries.

“Going to muggle pubs is so nice,” Ginny said, tipping her head back to let the warm evening sun shine on her face. “It’s impossible to get a drink in any wizarding pub without someone recognising you.”

Hermione sipped her gin and tonic. “So, how’s it been?”

“Dreadful. Harry’s been doing his kicked-puppy routine.”

“He’s having a hard time.”

“He’s always having a hard time.”

“I know, but…” Hermione started to fiddle with Ginny’s bottle of hipster beer, trying to peel off the label. “I think he’s sadder now.”

Ginny paused. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” Hermione admitted. “But it used to be like… He barely had time to be sad in school. From when he started at Hogwarts, he was always battling something. But now he doesn’t, he… I think he’s just a bit lost, to be honest.”

“And I didn’t help much with that.”

“Well… I don’t think he really knows what he wants anymore.”

Ginny sighed and closed her eyes. She had been thinking the same thing, but for years. “Why haven’t we talked about this before?”

“I didn’t really notice it before the divorce. And I don’t know… I don’t really think you’re happy, either.”

“No. No, I don’t think I am.”

Hermione hesitated. “You never told me why you asked for a divorce in the first place.”

And Ginny thought about telling her. She thought about the women, secret and furtive, in muggle nightclubs and alleyways and strangers’ parties. She thought about telling her how confused she was, how confused she still is, and how she’d been too young to marry Harry but had thought she was doing the right thing anyway. She thought about telling her about her sessions with Pansy, about her long manicured fingers and Ginny’s body and the dark hair that fell in her face and how much Ginny ached to touch her back. She shook her head.

“No. I don’t suppose I have.”

*

Ginny and Hermione stumbled home when the pubs closed, weaving their way around wide empty pavements and wondering aloud where Ginny’s other crutch had gone. Drinks had turned into dinner at a dodgy restaurant with stained tablecloths and a flashing neon sign, had turned into more drinks in a sleazy pub. Ginny had spent the evening cheerfully making up stories about how she’d hurt her leg and flirting with good-looking men while Hermione tried to tell her about her summer work at the ministry.

Ginny clung to Hermione and howled loudly from the street, “Open uuuuup!” while Hermione nearly doubled over with laughter. “Open the door!”

“Excuse me!” somebody shouted from an opened window. “It’s nearly midnight! Can you shut up please?”

“Sorry!” Hermione called.

“They’re all so posh here!” Ginny told Hermione loudly, while Hermione shushed her and fumbled for her wand.

“Be quiet, you’re going to start a fight.”

“Excellent!” Ginny said, trying to spin out of Hermione’s grasp. “That’s a proper way to end an evening.”

“Shh! I need to concentrate.” But before Hermione could remember the spell, the houses parted to reveal Ron in his pyjamas on the doorstep. Ginny squinted, her world spinning.

“What the hell are you two doing?”

“It was Ginny!” Hermione insisted as she let Ron take Ginny from her.

“What happened to your crutches?”

Ginny looked around in surprise. “Oh… I had one… At least.”

“Oh, we’ll get you a new one. Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

“Ooh!” Ginny said in a falsetto. “Don’t need to hear about yours and Hermione’s sex life, Ronald.”

“Oh, God, Ginny, that doesn’t even make sense,” but Hermione and Ginny fell into each other laughing.

When they reached the first flight of stairs, however, Ginny realised something was wrong. Nausea lurched from her stomach to her chest, and she almost pulled Ron down the stairs as she tried to steady herself.

“What now?” he asked impatiently.

“I think… I think I’m going to be very sick.”

The next thing she knew, she was vomiting the contents of her stomach up into a toilet. Her leg was at an awkward, painful angle, and the bright toilet light was burning through her and making her head ache.

“Light off,” she mumbled resting her head on the toilet seat.

A quiet spell was murmured, and there was blissful darkness. She groaned again and her hair was brushed back from her forehead.

“Do you need to throw up again?”

She heaved, testing, then shook her head and sat back, leaning against the bathtub. Seeing Harry’s concerned, in his soft pyjama T-Shirt, made Ginny want to burst into tears. She almost did, particularly when he squeezed her hand.

“Hey, come on, it’s OK. Let’s clean you up and get you to bed.”

He took her through the motions, brushing her teeth and washing her face and by the time she was sat up in his bed gulping down water she felt almost sober.

“I’m going to stay in this chair, OK?” he said, pulling up an armchair. “Just to keep an eye on you.”

Ginny rolled her eyes. “Don’t be stupid, Harry. If you won’t let me go back to my bed, at least sleep here. There’s plenty of room.” When he hesitated, she pulled back the covers for him. “Come on. I promise I’ll barely try and hit on you.”

He climbed in next to her, a little bit reluctantly, and Ginny wrapped herself around him immediately. “I missed this,” she sighed, breathing in the familiar scent of his skin and hair.

“I miss you,” he murmured.

“I’m drunk enough to pretend not to remember that in the morning.”

He combed his fingers through her wild hair, unknotting it gently. “No, you’re not.”

Almost shyly, she buried her face in his chest. “Why did we break up again?”

“You divorced me.”

“Oh yeah.” She sighed. “I could have got so much more of your money if I’d made you leave me.”

He dug his fingers into her side, making her squirm. “Let’s not talk about it tonight.”

“But I want to. We should.”

Then they listened to the quiet of the night, to the tick of Harry’s watch and the wind whistling through the tree-lined street. Ginny felt Harry’s heartbeat beneath her cheek and wondered what Pansy wore to bed.

“Good night, Ginny.”

But, drifting somewhere between her past and her future, Ginny was already asleep.

*

Their first wedding anniversary had been a fucking disaster.

They had been married at the end of June, when Hogwarts was empty of students and even Scotland was sunny. They had agreed to celebrate the anniversary by visiting a floating wizarding restaurant above the Thames, looking over London. It was by far their favourite place to eat - despite all the patrons staring at them relentlessly, they liked the exhilaration and wind in their hair, and the lights of London glittering beneath them.

Ginny had forgotten it was their anniversary. She was enjoying a moment of peace with a glass of wine, wondering vaguely where Harry was, and had to walk past the fireplace to find the posh cheese she had been saving. Harry’s floo call was furious.

“Where the fuck are you?” he hissed. Ginny knelt over the fire, one hand on her forehead.

“Oh, God. It’s our anniversary today.”

“ _Yes_. I’ve been waiting here for almost forty-five minutes. I had to ask to use the restaurant’s fireplace. It was humiliating.”

“Well, sorry, I’ve had a very long day at work, and just because you want to be a woman about it -“

“ _You’ve_ had a long day at work? _I’ve_ been at the Ministry all day, and yet -“

“Oh, give it a rest Harry.”

Harry looked thunderous, and Ginny felt a rush of adrenaline. She waited with baited breath for his reply. “Get here. Now.”

They barely made it through their starters. They had already mastered the art of arguing in undertones, keeping blank expressions and ignoring attempts at furtive glances. Once, Ginny would have joked about them all being Holyhead Harpies fans. Now, she was was watching Harry argue viciously with her through gritted teeth and wondered if the restaurant would blab to _Witches’ Weekly_. She hurriedly paid for the starters while Harry dragged her out of there, the sun setting over London beneath their feet.

Once they’d appeared home, Ginny shuddering as she landed with a thud in their kitchen and Harry released her arm, Harry rounded on her immediately and picked up the argument where they’d left off.

“You don’t give a fuck about this marriage, do you?”

Ginny straightened herself. “I’m trying my best, Harry, but -“

“But what? You don’t care about me at all, do you?”

“But you don’t exactly make it easy!” Vaguely, a detached version of Ginny watched as her temper rose to match his and she barrelled forward.

“So it’s my fault you don’t love me.”

“For fuck’s sake, Harry, nobody does! Nobody knows how! You’re just so fucking _sad_ all the time.”

The silence that fell was deafening. They stared at each other, Harry in angry disbelief, and Ginny deflating.

“Look, Harry -“

“Are you sleeping with other people?”

Ginny looked away, defeated. “Can you blame me?”

The door slammed behind Harry.

Ginny hid in the bedroom for hours, waiting silently, sitting and pacing and flicking through the magazines on the bedside table. All the time, her heart was pounding in her chest, an incessant reminder of how many moments, minutes, hours had passed since Harry had left. She resolved to owl Ron if he wasn’t home by morning, and to beg for forgiveness on her knees. She jumped when she heard the latch of the front door click. It took her several long moments before she could persuade herself to creep downstairs.

Harry was sitting on the sofa, staring blankly at their bookshelf with a bottle of cheap Muggle whiskey in his hands. When he looked up at Ginny, he wasn’t angry. He was crying.

Ginny reached out to him, climbing onto the sofa and wrapping her arms around his waist.

“I’m sorry,” she said, burying her face into his hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

Harry shook his head. “Stop it, Ginny. We aren’t teenagers anymore.” He wiped his eyes with his sleeve ruefully. “How did we manage to fuck it up so badly?”

“Still basically teenagers,” Ginny said. “Not your fault, anyway.”

Harry snorted wetly, and rested his chin on Ginny’s head. “I love you,” he murmured, and pain shot through Ginny’s chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, and didn’t say it back.

It started to rain, drops tapping against the window like a dodgy clock. Ginny listened as it poured.

“Who’s the other man?” Harry asked. “Or is it men?”

“Harry, so many people love you. They really, truly, genuinely do. They love you. I’m so, so sorry for saying they didn’t - it wasn’t true, at all, and I was just trying to -“

“Ginny.” He pried her off him, and looked into her eyes imploringly. He held her face in one hand. “Please.”

She sighed and closed her eyes again. “Women. It’s women. I sleep with other women.” She opened her eyes. “I’m gay.”

Harry shifted away from her almost imperceptibly, his hand sliding down to rest on the nape of her neck. “Really?”

Ginny’s eyes were burning. It felt as if a weight had been lifted off her chest, leaving her lightheaded and sick.

Harry hugged her, rubbing her back and stroking her hair as he murmured, “It’s OK, Gin, it’s OK, I’m here, I’ve got you.”

“I can’t change it. I can’t love you,” she said in his ear, her voice shaking, tears dropping off her cheek. “I can’t be what you need. I can’t, I can’t. I’m so sorry.”

He held her until they fell asleep together, curled upon on the sofa.

*

Pansy organised sessions more frequently, and stayed longer each time. She admitted to being a Holyhead Harpies fan, which delighted Ginny, and Quidditch was always an easy topic. Being felt up by a gorgeous woman and chatting about really the only thing she ever really cared about, Ginny was in her element. Then their conversations became deeper.

“Why did you get married in the first place?”

They were in the narrow garden of Grimmauld place, Ginny stretching her dodgy leg gingerly. “Sorry?”

“Sorry, sorry, you. Don’t need to answer that, I’m just being nosy. It’s just… you were only, what, 18? I always wondered why you would want to get married. It’s fine if you don’t want to talk about it.”

“Been keeping tabs on me?” Ginny asked, grinning. Pansy was usually unflappable in the face of Ginny’s flirting, but she was flustered now.

“No, it’s OK. Um…” They both looked pointedly at Ginny’s leg, like the confession would be too intense if paired with eye contact. “I got pregnant.”

“Oh.”

“I lost the baby about a week after the wedding.”

“Oh. I - I’m sorry.”

“Not your fault.” Ginny squinted up at the sun. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

“I’m engaged,” Pansy told her over a cup of steaming green tea. She was ignoring Ginny’s homemade biscuits. (“Mum is staying over at the moment, so Ron and I decided to try and bake. I probably wouldn’t touch them.”) “I’m technically engaged.”

Ginny blinked. “You are?” She took a bite from one of her biscuits, than grimaced as she forced herself to swallow it.

“Well, to Draco. It’s more to keep our families happy.”

“I don’t think that counts.”

“Yeah, well.” She sipped her tea. “I didn’t want to be left out.”

Ginny smiled, then bit her lip ever so slightly. It had been weeks since she’d hit on anyone, and she loved the heady rush of uncertainty that came with it. “Are you seeing anyone?”

Pansy’s flush was faint. She glanced at Ginny’s hand, lying just inches away from her own, and looked away. Ginny kept her gaze - half curious, half amused - trained on Pansy. Pansy shook her head.

“You’re not?”

“No - no.”

“I see.” Ginny picked at another biscuit.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” Ginny wished she’d had the foresight to at least unbutton her shirt a little more.

“Single?”

“Sure,” Ginny said, now grinning broadly. “For the time being, anyway.”

“Right.” They’re quiet for a few moments. Ginny watched as Pansy gathered her courage. “Why did you get divorced? Weren’t you, uh, only married for like, a year?”

Ginny was thrown off by her question, and unthinkingly took another bite of a biscuit. As she chewed slowly, Pansy went on.

“Was it just like… Did it just not really work out?”

“Sure,” Ginny said. “It didn’t really work out.”

Then Pansy started to collect her things, reminding Ginny of the exercises she had to complete before their next session and explaining that her schedule was getting busy and, well sort of, and she wasn’t sure when, um, the next time she’d be able to come, and…

Ginny followed her to the door, biting back a smirk. Peeling back Pansy’s cool exterior to find that she babbled when she was flustered was endearing. As Pansy stepped out onto the doorstep, still talking, Ginny interrupted. “Pansy?”

“Yes?”

“Harry and I got divorced because I’m a lesbian.”

Pansy blinked at her. “Right. OK.”

“I’ll see you whenever you’re free.”

“Yes. Yes, exactly.”

Ginny smiled at the closed door. She jumped and spun around when she heard another voice.

Molly Weasley was stood at the foot of the stairs, one hand on the banister, a blank look of surprise on her face. “Ginny? Who was that?”

*

Pansy had a regular nighttime routine, after a long day visiting clients or pouring over her books. She would take a rose petal bath and sink into the water, feeling the tension seep out of her just as she imagined her clients felt. She would rub softly glowing cream into her skin in front of the mirror, half admiring her smooth pale skin and dark hair piled up on her head. Then, dressed in silky full length pyjamas, when it was pitch black out of her bedroom window and she could barely make out the shapes of Regent’s Park, she climbed the stairs to her grandfather’s poky attic.

He sat at a large oak desk, through every day and most of the night. Books lined his walls and his floors and his workspace, as well as sheets of random parchment, filled with scribbled formulas and diagrams. He was a leading master of healing, and had very little interest in the world outside of his studies.

“Pansy,” Damocles said, smiling. “Come in, my dear, come in.”

Pansy carried in a tray, with bread and cheese and biscuits, and placed it on his desk where he pushed books and quills aside.

“How’s your work?”

“Oh, fine, fine. I still haven’t been able to get hold of samples of an alihotsy tree, I’m afraid. Very disappointing. But how are you, my dear?”

He sipped his overly sweet tea, his kind eyes crinkling above the rim of his glasses.

“I -“ Pansy took a deep, calming breath, and imagined the tension leaving her again. “I have something to tell you, Grandfather, only I’m not sure I should.”

He hummed, and nodded. “That is a problem.”

“Do you promise not to tell my mother?”

“Pansy, I’m not sure I would tell your mother even if you asked me to.”

Pansy nodded, and breathed again. “I’m - um, I’ve met someone.”

“And is that a problem?”

“I’ve met a girl.”

Damocles paused. “I see.”

“Do you?”

He considered for a moment. Pansy became suddenly interested in the enormous diagram of a human heart adorning the wall behind him. “Pansy,” he finally said, in a slow, measured voice. “Do you know why I pushed for your engagement to Draco Malfoy?”

Uncertainly, she shook her head.

“You like him, don’t you? He’s your friend? Even if you perhaps don’t feel romantically towards him?”

Pansy agreed with him.

“Your engagement to the Malfoy boy is no longer a good one. Yes, it may have been when you both were infants, but the war has ruined the Malfoy name and halved their fortune. Your mother wanted to call it all off, but - well, I am the head of the Parkinson household, and even the might of Caroline has its limits. I insisted.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“No. Well, I suppose I thought you wouldn’t want to know.”

“Why? I mean - why did you do it?”

He nodded for a long moment, studying Pansy closely. “I believed you and Draco to be good friends, and I wanted you to be among friends. Above all else. I hoped - well, I hoped it would give you some more freedom.”

“You knew I - uh, that I might like women?”

“Not necessarily homosexual, but…” He became glassy-eyed. “I knew a girl once. She was a muggle - not muggleborn, no, not even that, but an actual muggle, and I’ve always - she’s died now, of course. And I always wondered…”

“Grandfather, I - I had no idea.”

Damocles grasped her hand. “You must follow you heart, darling girl. You must. Far be it from this family to tell you what is acceptable.”

Pansy nodded. He kissed her forehead, and sent her to bed.

_*_

Molly tried to persuade Ginny that she was OK with her secret lesbianism, although her wet eyes said otherwise. She could only stick around in the house until the morning, when she left Ginny and Harry with barely a word, only hugging Harry tight while Ginny glowered.

Arthur floo’d Ginny in the evening.

“So you’ve spoken to Mum?” Ginny said immediately, scowling. “Have you come to apologise to Harry as well?”

“Ginny, please,” he replied Gently. “I only wanted to see how you were doing.”

“You aren’t upset?”

“Of course not, never. Your mother might need… Some time to get used to it, but I promise she’ll come around, too.”

“Not bloody likely. All she wants for us is absolutely picture-perfect lives. She still has breakdowns over Bill’s earring and he’s married with a kid on the way, for God’s sake.”

“Ginny, your mother loves you immensely, and I promise she’ll come around. It’ll just take some readjustment.”

Ginny bit her lip and looked away. “And what do you think about it, Dad?”

“That I couldn’t possibly love you more.”

Ginny was still angry and somewhat ashamed when she went to bed, and still angry when she woke up, but at least she had tucked up in her chest the knowledge that her father, no matter what, loved her.

*

_Dear Draco,_

_I need you to pretend we’re getting dinner on Friday. Got a date. Don’t ask questions._

_Pansy_

_Pansy,_

_Don’t make me laugh. Lunch on Saturday._

_Draco_

_*_

Ginny greeted Pansy with a kiss on the cheek. Pansy caught a glimpse of Hermione waving them goodbye in the doorway, but Ginny bundled her away before she could really respond.

“Was that Hermione Granger?”

“Yep. She was helping me get ready. Can I hold your arm? My leg is still feeling weak.” Ginny was already clutching her arm.

“Is it really? Do you want me to take a look at it?”

“No, no, it’s fine. You’re off duty anyway, Parkinson.”

“If you’re sure…”

“Relax. Nice job on choosing a muggle outfit, by the way. You look good.”

Pansy glanced down at her outfit, pleased. She felt exposed without robes, and underdressed in plain colours, but if Ginny liked it… “I spent ages choosing it,” she admitted. “I had to smuggle magazines into my house.”

Ginny was delighted. “Did you really? My dad would love that. Hermione teaching him that kind of thing was practically a condition for her joining the family.”

“Oh, I didn’t know she’d married your brother.”

“Well.” Ginny thought about it. “No, I guess they’re not married. Not yet, anyway. I hope they get on with it though, I love weddings.”

“Yeah, sure,” Pansy said. “Weddings are great.”

The restaurant Ginny took her too was a Muggle one, much to Pansy’s trepidation, the waiters dressed in smart uniforms serving food Pansy has never heard of.

“It’s Japanese,” Ginny told her. “We can go somewhere else if you don’t think this will be your thing.”

“No, no, I’ll try it, definitely. I trust you.”

Ginny’s smile was blinding.

They’re sat down in a dark corner, where Pansy could watch the waiters dance their careful dance and the chefs prepare the food. She fixated on this when she realised that, sat down, Ginny’s dress was rather heavier on cleavage than she’d first thought. Ginny tapped her hand.

“Everything OK?”

Pansy’s head snapped back. “Sorry?”

“No one’s going to recognise you. The chances are just like…”

“I know, I know.” Pansy moved closer to speak quieter. “I haven’t done this before.”

“Been out with a girl?”

“Been out with… Uh, well, anyone. Not that I couldn’t have,” she added quickly. “Probably. Uh, you know, I was never that interested in guys I guess. Good to know why I guess.” She laughed nervously, but Ginny only nodded. She didn’t look as horrified as Pansy might have expected.

“I think that, for a lot of us, we forget how young we really are. You know? We did so much, and we lost so much, and we tried so hard to make up for it… But, you know. Really, we’re still just teenagers.”

“Yeah. Yeah, Maybe.”

“What about Draco, though? Surely that counts.”

Pansy smirked. “That’s pretty clearly become a mutually beneficial arrangement for both of us. He’s forcing me to confess to this tomorrow over lunch.”

“So I have you until tomorrow afternoon?” Ginny’s gaze dipped just slightly but oh-so suggestively.

“Well… Yes, I suppose. If you’d like.”

“Mhm.” She glanced down at her menu, her eyes glinting. “Shall we order?”

*

Pansy walked Ginny home in silence, her heart thundering in her chest. Ginny seemed perfectly serene and content, peering into shop windows and tipping her head back to study the moon. Her hand slipped into Pansy’s, soft where it isn’t calloused, which did nothing to help Pansy’s increasing heart rate.

“Can I kiss you goodnight?” Ginny asked, standing a step above Pansy and smiling down at her. Pansy nodded, and Ginny’s fingers threader through her and tilted her head. When she pressed their lips together, it didn’t take Pansy long to get the gist as they move their lips together. She wanted to move closer to Ginny, to run her hands all through Ginny’s red mane of hair and all over her athletic body, to push her against the door and melt into her, but Ginny pulled away before she got a chance. She didn’t move her hands from Pansy’s silky hair, and kept her close, her eyes flicking from Pansy’s gaze to her lips. Pansy could feel her breath on her cheek.

“Do you want to come in?” Ginny asked in a low voice. Pansy nodded helplessly, and let Ginny pull her into the darkened hallway.

*

“You’re late,” Draco said without looking up, lying on his sofa with a book in hand.

Pansy checked her appearance in his enchanted mirror, which said in a knowing and almost disapproving voice, “You look as though you’ve been busy, dear.”

Draco lifted his head. “Is that why you’re late?”

“I’m not late. We didn’t agree on a time.”

“You look like a mess.”

“I do not.”

“Those are the same clothes you wore yesterday.”

“You couldn’t possibly know that.”

“Where were you last night?”

And Pansy rolled her eyes, sagging into an armchair. “What have you got me for lunch?”

“I rather thought you’d do that. Ow!” Pansy had sent a flicking charm at his forehead. “You owe me a favour, anyway.”

“Do shut up, my love,” Pansy said. “I’m wiped.”

Grumbling, Draco stood up. “I’ll make you a sandwich if you tell me who your date was.”

“Make that pasta, and I’ll see what I can do.”

“Come on then,” he said, holding out a hand to haul Pansy up. “You do look terrible, by the way.”

“Thanks.”

On the surface, Draco may have seemed to be serene, calm and collected. He had gone back to Hogwarts with Blaise and Pansy, the three of them huddling together more than they ever had before, at least at first. Draco was genuinely, deeply, painfully remorseful, and although he never said as much out loud, desperate to, somehow, make it right. He had kept his head down and studied hard and, semi-bizarrely, befriended Hermione Granger. But they’d been out of school for eighteen months now, and Draco had barely left his Hampstead apartment. It was beautiful, to be sure, at the top of a tall, narrow house, furnished with whatever Draco had wanted from the Manor.

To some, it may have looked like he was a walking stereotype: lounging around in his apartment in beautiful robes, reading and experimenting and sometimes deigning to write. Pansy said he should publish or work for the ministry or become a master (of anything, she added, you could do literally anything, Draco), but Draco would only ever roll his eyes. But she knew that, really, he was just lonely, and so, so scared. He had worked hard to apologise, to make amends, to change - Pansy had been subjected to his attempts at re-educating himself, and she had thought that Draco’s life and prospects were looking up. When they had graduated, and he with top grades, and he with top grades, she hadn’t doubted that he couldn’t find success and happiness. Then a year passed, and he didn’t leave his apartment. She would have said he was heartbroken, only she couldn’t image about what.

Pansy hopped up onto his kitchen counter, and Draco swatted at her with a kitchen towel. “Get down from there.”

“You’re getting quite domestic in your old age, Draco,” she said, not shifting.

“Shut up.” He waved his wand lazily, and a brass saucepan flew out of a cupboard, filling itself with water and starting to boil. “Who were you with last night?”

“Do you promise you won’t be upset?”

“What?” He stopped looking for past. “Why on earth would I be upset?”

Draco had been Pansy’s best friend since they were very, very small. They had fought countless times and made up, stayed up all night and told each other things they’d never told anyone, and Pansy knew that they’d probably know each other for the rest of their lives. She still bit her lip nervously.

“I was with Ginny Weasley.”

“Ginny Weasley?”

“Yes.”

“Harry Potter’s wife?”

“Well, ex-wife,” and this stopped Draco in his tracks. He stared at Pansy with wide, unblinking eyes.

“Harry’s divorced?”

Pansy frowned and wondered when the hell those two ended up on a first-name basis. It was the first time she’d got an inkling of what might have happened. “Yes. So?”

Draco turned away. “Just didn’t know that.”

“No, well, I don’t think it’s public knowledge. Don’t go telling the Prophet, will you?”

“I’m not exactly on the best terms with that lot anyway.”

“No. Well.”

There was a silence, then Draco recovered and remembered the topic at hand. “Hang on, you were with Ginny Weasley last night?”

He turned his piercing gaze on Pansy, and Pansy wanted to hide her face in her hands. “Yes,” she said, holding her chin high.

“You were… with her?”

“We got dinner. Then we, you know… went back to hers.”

“With her ex in the same house?”

“I - well, I presume there were silencing charms or something.”

“I see.” Draco nodded, turning back to the food. “How was it?”

Pansy laughed, and finally blushed, looking up at the tops of the trees through Draco’s window. “It was… It was good. Thanks for asking.”

“You’re blushing.”

“Fuck off.”

He stirred the pasta. “Are you gonna see her again?”

“Yeah. Yeah. I mean, I hope so.”

And Pansy did see her again. And again, and again, and again. Despite their families, their past, their age, everything - slowly, slowly - got better.

**Author's Note:**

> Oh my GOD, I worked so hard on this piece. It took me so, so long to write. If you read this - thank you so much! I really appreciate it. I have two more fics planned for this series, and maybe (?) more after that, the others mostly focusing on Harry and Draco. Follow me @dreamdwellers on Tumblr if you'd like to chat or stay updated and otherwise, have a lovely day!


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